Whatever I Can Take
by KillingTheHours
Summary: "I'm an alien to this w-world. Why w-won't you get it? I don't belong h-here."
1. Prologue

The path from birth to death is a struggle for conformity, individuals molding into the sizes and proportions that fit society's 'norm'. If you happen to be a little bit different, or a lot different, the line you walk will never be straight enough to truly succeed. The world, and culture we live in exists by a single rule, the same barbaric mantra our ancestors lived by; 'survival of the fittest'. Those deemed unfit will be persecuted by society into a life of misunderstood solitude and undeserved hatred. I guess that's where I fit in. No matter how hard I try to blend in, I'll always stick out in a crowd like a sore thumb. Or like a twitchy, frizzy-haired spaz with a severe caffeine addiction. Believe me when I say that the glares and gazes I often receive are unwanted, especially when it lands me where I was right now, sitting alone in the purgatory of red plastic chairs lining the entrance to the hell hole that was Mr. Davis's office. The teachers at North Park High had the tendency to lose their minds towards the end of the school year, something about 'the stressors of us unruly kids', and this year was no exception. Of course, the unintentionally disruptive, frightened little blonde kid was the favored victim of cruel and unusual punishments in the form of detentions, extra assignments and trips to the councilor's office for petty crimes of misdemeanor. Somewhere between being tricked into taking the blame for the shenanigans of the other delinquents in the junior year, and the rare manic outbursts I actually supplied myself, I had created a pretty bad name for myself among the faculty. I wasn't even sure exactly why I wound up in the office most of the time, I usually find out once I'm inside. Physics class today had barely started before the sound of my name was screeching through the room, and a red-painted finger was sharply pointing to the door. Knowing the drill, I pulled my chunky headphones over my ears and dragged my ratty backpack down the hall with a severe lack of enthusiasm. Now I heard, but barely registered Davis's annoyed tone as I peeled myself from my slouched position and proceeded dragging my bag behind my feet as I followed him into the seventh layer of hell; a heavily cluttered, paper coated excuse for an office. The chipping blue paint was almost completely obscured by frames of average-looking figures, and collections of diplomas and crayon drawings. I wanted to get out of here as soon as possible, so I cut to the chase.

"What did I do now." Davis frowned, uncrossing his legs and gesturing to my arms.

"Now Tweek, we've gone over this many times before. This is putting you at serious risk of ink poisoning." I crossed my sharpie-coated arms and sighed in annoyance.

"The ink has to be injected into your bloodstream i-in order to harm someone. Tattoos, for example. This is h-how I spend my time during class."

"You should be paying attention? This is the fourth time you've been sent here for coloring yourself during class. This is disruptive behavior, and we at the school, are starting to become concerned about your attention-getting problem." That did it. Maybe it was the amount of caffeine in my system, maybe it was the lack of sleep. But I was not about to sit here and have this fucking nonsense drilled through my head once again. For sixteen years I've been forced to listen to constant sporadic bullshit about the opinions of others, directed at myself. That I was a sociopath, a liar, a psycho, that I must have been abused as a child. I can't forget about the ingenious theory that I was a meth addict, that I was a starving cannibal, or that my insomnia was charged by possession by the devil. But perhaps the worst thing I've heard about myself, in all of my sixteen years, was the completely-untrue rumor that nearly everyone believed; all of the eccentric points of my personality were being faked, because I wanted attention. Let it be known that today, March 17th 2011, 11:34 am, was the day that Tweek Tweak completely lost his shit. I stood up so fast my head spun and my chair toppled, and before I realized what I was doing, my hands had slammed onto his desk and I was screeching with rage into his disbelieving face.

"ATTENTION‽ OBVIOUSLY THAT'S THE F-FUCKING REASON I 'ACT OUT' HUH‽ I MUST…MUST TELEPATHICALLY COMMAND PEOPLE TO SH-SHOUT AT ME FOR ALL OF THE RIDICULOUS FUCKING THINGS THAT EVERY OTHER STUDENT D-DOES, WITHOUT _ASINGLEFUCKINGGLANCE_ SENT THEIR WAY! 'TWEEK COLORS WITH MARKERS, SEND HIM TO THE OFFICE WITH SI-SIXTYSEVEN DETENTIONS!' HELL, I P-PROBABLY GET OFF ON THE TORTURES OF FAKING PARANOIA, SO TH-THAT ALL OF THE OBNOXIOUS PEOPLE I COULDN'T CA…COULDN'T GIVE LESS OF A SHIT ABOUT WILL LOOK MY WAY AND F-FEEL PITY FOR S-SUCH A LITTLE OVERMEDICATED, WAYWARD, CHILD. OR I'M A, A MASOCHIST HUH‽ CAN'T RESIST THE O-OPPORTUNITY FOR SOMEONE TO _PUSHMEAROUNDALITTLEBIT_, AND INFORM ME THAT I LIE AH, ABOUT THE THINGS I DESPISE THE MOST ABOUT MYSELF, BECAUSE GOD KNOWS, TH-THEY HAVE THE RIGHT TO! CHRIST, ISN'T JUST W-WONDERFUL TO EXPLOIT YOURSELF TO THE POINT OF BEING A FUCKING…MENTAL-PATIENT STERIOTYPE‽ BECAUSE WHO THE F-FUCK, DOESN'T LOVE HAVING A TWITCHY, FREAK OF A S-SIDESHOW TO GAWK AT, DURING ALL HOURS OF THE SCHOOL DAY‽ OH B-BUT MAYBE I'M JUST DOING IT FOR ATTENTION! MAYBE…MAYBE I MAKE ART BECAUSE I W-WANT PEOPLE TO NOTICE HOW MUCH OF A SPECIAL F-F-FUCKING SNOWFLAKE I AM! YOU REALLY THINK I WANT YOU; __ TO ACKNOWLEDGE MY EXISTANCE‽ I HATE YOU AND Y-YOUR IGNORANT BRAINS. I F-FUCKING HATE, EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU _NARSISSISSTIC DOUCHEROCKETS!_ GET IT THROUGH YOUR THICK F-FUCKING SKULL DAVIS!"

Once the blood vessels on his forehead were noticeably swollen to the point of bursting, I quickly thought over my explosive rant and realized that I may have overdone it.

"Expelled‽ I thought I raised you better than this! Tweek I…I can't even believe this…" Jen ran her hands through her long, caramel hair and tugged. Despite the paranoid anxiety that plagued us both, I'd never seen her quite this disheveled before, and it was starting to make me extremely nervous. "Where are you going to go to school‽ Oh Jesus, we're going to have to move, aren't we. I'll have to drive hours to get to work every day…unless…of course…"

I knew better than to bother my mom when she was talking to herself, and so I held my position with my ass planted firmly on the couch and my arms around my knees as my mother frantically paced around the living room, tugging on her hair and muttering about the government's plots to drag our house from under our feet and condemn us to a life of change-begging and cardboard boxes.

"Tweek. Don't you get it. They've been planning this for years! We have to go back to South Park if we want the torment to end."

"What torment? And y-you-know-who is still doing you-know-what in you-know-where." I couldn't help but notice just how much I resembled Jen as she grit her teeth and tugged on her hair, spinning her tiny body as she stomped around the floor in a manner akin to a rampaging toddler. When she found out about my father's mistress, she had completely lost it, packing our things and moving to North Park, where we lived alone in a haphazard whirlwind of a creaky old house. The place was cramped and spooky, despite the tightly packed potted plants and surrealism painting adorning the walls-at least the walls that weren't completely covered by tapestries and blankets in abstract shapes and patterns. It was strange, but suited our dysfunctional, makeshift family. It had been years since we'd left South Park, and no matter how un-thought-through the whole plan was, my gut was screaming with a mixture of excitement and dread I had begun to associate with the word 'adventure'. Even if the possibility of coming in contact with my father and his blooming coffee house could drive Mom to lose the rest of her sanity, I was almost ready to run upstairs and pack my shit immediately, with the ache of creaking floorboards and squeaking door hinges behind me at last. I did, however, have a manic mother to attend to before any arrangements were made.

"Jen. You n-need to calm down. Everything is going to be o-okay. We d-don't have to make any…no decisions right now. Okay? _Doyouwantsometea_?" Mom had since plopped her skinny butt on the floor in front of the black-and-white tv, and slowly nodded her head in solemn agreement, urging me to charge into my crowded kitchen, eager for a remedy for her anxiety. I mixed together the things I needed as quickly as I could manage without scalding myself with boiling water. I returned to the living room, teacup in hand, and I noticed Jen missing from her place on the floor. This could be bad. This could be very bad. Leaving the teacup on the table, I hurried upstairs with paranoia guiding my feet, skidding down the narrow hallway. I came to a stop at the last door-Jen's room. The sound of muffled sobs and ripping paper assaulted my ears, bringing with it a strange sense of responsibility otherwise foreign to me. I decided quickly that entering with a gift would appear much more welcoming to Jen in her current state, and quietly descended back into the fog of our incense-filled living room.

Jen's bedroom was even messier than the rest of the house, and the torn pages of her journal that currently littered the floor definitely did not help the situation. She sat, crumpled looking, on her favorite corner of her floor-mattress, the one the walls met at. Jen's wild brown hair was just a little too long, and the parts that couldn't be tucked behind her ears fell in her face, hiding the bloodshot-red from her hazel eyes, the ones that looked like mine. I sat on the mattress, silently offering my mother her tea.

"'D-do you wish, nngh...Do you wanna tell me wh-what you were doing?" Jen shook her head, dragging what was left of her leather diary close to her turquoise-clothed chest. That was one of the few things that remained from my childhood with my father; my mother loved wearing blue. In any shade at all. She said something about being _'one with the sky'_, a quote I would have once grouped together with the coffee metaphors my father overwhelmed my brain with, but I guess a lot has changed since then. I thought about this as I drew Jen close to me, wrapping my arms around her frail shoulders and allowing her to sob into mine.

The next few days were a blur of oversleeping, uninspiring artwork, and of course, Jen running frantically from room to room mumbling to herself about aliens. I had never seen her clean the house with such vigor, and the amount of paperwork she was filling out was strange. It shouldn't have surprised me as much as it did when after a week of quick errands and hushed phone calls, she announced that we were moving back to South Park.

"I thou…I d-didn't know you were serious!" Jen nodded her head vigorously, sending sideways glances in both directions before replying.

"We're staying on the other side of town. I have the house picked out already. It'll be a little out of the way but…we can be out of here in a week."

"You…you're kidding."

"Of course not, if they want us to leave, we can't just go about making them angry, now can we?"

"The wall-faces?" Jen often spoke of small whispers she heard, from faces in the wooden patterns of our walls. Her mental state was as unstable as her son's when she was refusing to take her medications, the ones that _my father _suggested she get prescribed to her. She nodded in agreement, leaving me to realize that she had her own logic, as well as the current lack of my schooling career to back up the impulsive decision, and that was about all the argument I could muster before I was being shooed upstairs to begin packing up my things.


	2. Hello teacher, what's my lesson?

One U-haul truck and three hours was all it took to completely leave my deserted-city-life behind. A light shower of snow coated the windshield as we approached our house for the first time. It had a small porch, two stories…and slightly chipping blue paint. Jen clapped her hands together and squealed in childlike abandon when she pulled into the driveway, and ordered me to begin moving boxes inside immediately, while she ran around the white-painted porch in tight circles, squealing with joy. We had managed to scrape together enough money to hire a few movers, who had somehow found a way to shove our couch, tables and mattresses through the tight door frame before we had arrived. By the time I had moved almost all of the boxes inside, I realized that somehow, I had lost track of Jen completely. I sighed and rubbed my temples with my fingertips, and used my super-deduction skills to discover footprints in the light dusting of snow covering the nubby grass of our new lawn, and started off after them. Light prints wound a curving trail through the spacious back yard, and through a row of bushes into the next yard over. I found Jen peering through a barely-opened window in the beige house next door. If the owners of said home were to look outside that window any time soon, they would notice some very suspicious trails in the snow. Trails that looked similar to that of a small child being unwillingly yanked from the candy aisle in the local grocery store, and dragged away by their shirt collar.

Jen's nervous worry about the new house had grown to sheer enthusiasm, and deflated back into gloomy anxiety in a matter of hours. As we sat down in our tiny new kitchen to enjoy a dinner of hot pockets and coffee, she clicked her nails against the table and chewed on her lip nervously, flicking her eyes back and forth between the dusty rose paint of the walls, yet to be coated with the 'charming attributes' of our old run-down shack. At least she wasn't speaking. When my mother began to mutter to herself, it was generally the start of something bad.

"You start school in four days." Well at least I didn't have to wonder what was on her mind for too long, such tended to be the case.

"That's…ah…w-why?"

"Pleasetrytobegoodthistime! Don't make anyone hate you…that's…no one wants that." Way to be blunt about it, asshole.

"B-b-but they're always, they'll always hate me! I'm j-just, _justastupidfuckingfreak _and I'm g-gunna be sh-shunned for that, no matter where I g-go. ALWAYS! I'm s-sorry mom, I'll try but…" I trailed off there. No sense in going off on some sort of self-hating spiel when I could be pitying myself in the solitude of my own brain. Jen must have realized this as well. She shot me a sad look before gulping the remains of her coffee and leaving me alone at the table. Just as well, I should spend some time smudging the house anyway, before the gnomes find a way to me here. My smudge stick was most likely stuffed in the box with the incense and lighters, and I intended to check the every chicken scratch label on each cardboard box until I found my own things, and retrieved the bundle of sage and lavender from the bottom of the smallest box in the living room. I pulled my headphones off of my neck and on to my ears, and began blasting Skrillex, as his music seemed otherworldly and magical to me. I lit the end of the smudge stick. I once heard somewhere, that Native Americans used smudge sticks made from specific plants to purify sacred places and banish evil spirits. I found myself one at once and began feverishly spreading the smoke about the walls that my mother claimed to see distorted faces in. Around the same time, I noticed that my underpants hadn't left my drawer in a few days, and decided immediately that it was the work of ancient Indian ghosts. Now I could sleep in peace…once every few weeks. Once the bundle had smoldered down to a tiny black nub between my fingers, I decided that the house was clean enough for me to feel a little at home here, especially with the familiar fog of smoke hanging in the air. I took the last box of my things upstairs, and began actually unpacking into my new room.

The days flew by in a flash of unpacking, arranging, rearranging, and room-painting. Before I knew it, I was sitting cross-legged at the end of my driveway with a baggy green sweatshirt and a thermos of coffee, waiting for the bus to come whisk me off to a land of hatred and pain. Even if I had been awake for the past three days, 6:32 was way too early to be out of bed and outside, where people could see me and point and laugh at my messy mop of hair, or my baggy, paint-stained clothes, or my squeaky voice and nervous twitches and the dark bags under my eyes and GOD I hate it outside. South Park is a lot quieter than North Park, that's for sure, but the kids here have to be just as mean. No one would ever want to be friends with some ugly little short kid. Not like I need friends anyway. That's way too much pressure. Friendship means responsibilities, and they always end up needing things like love and attention and I'm not okay with worship and holy shit is that the bus already I'm not ready I'MNOTREADYFORTHISYET! As I boarded the yellow Satanmobile, I swear to fucking god I could feel every kid on that bus glaring at me as I stood in the front of the aisle, wide-eyed and sweating nervously when I realized that there were no empty seats. I twitched violently, my head snapping to the left and my neck cracking loudly. A few of the eyes in the crowd shifted from accusatory, to disgusted, until I felt a chubby pair of hands shoving me into a seat next to the spot I was standing, currently being occupied by a tall, black-haired boy with a slightly irritated expression. He glared at me as I slammed into him with the grace of a drunk rhinoceros , but otherwise ignored my presence and turned his head to look out the window. I pulled my knees to my chin and attempted to make myself as small as possible, wishing and hoping that I could become one with the bus seat. I could hear the fat boy across the aisle laughing to a small blonde boy next to him.

"Don't make fun of him, look at his fuckin' hair. He prolly got electrocuted or somethin'. That's a face not even a mother could love. Tragic." The blonde boy cackled and responded softly, leaving them both in fits of giggles. I pulled my olive green hood over my head and tried my hardest not to cry.

When the bus finally stopped at a large, brick building, I stood up and flung myself out the door as fast as I possibly could. The inside of the school was painted a crisp white, with dirty, white tiles and pale gray lockers. The stench of vomit hung in the air, in kinship with the bile rising in my throat. I stood in the lobby, the lone freak surrounded by a million faded gray faces as they rushed in circles, avoiding me entirely until the bully from across the bus aisle interrupted my solitude with a sharp shove to the shoulders, and a loud cackle as he retreated. I fell to my knees, dropping my bag and flinging my things across the floor in a successful attempt to save what remained of my coffee by pressing the thermos to my bony chest. I noticed a few pairs of shoes kicking my belongings away from me, which I scrabbled after. I never carried any binders or folders in my torn up backpack, I never used them, and that would be silly. They were filled instead, with sketchbooks, journals and varied forms of art supplies. Luckily I had taken to keeping my pens and markers in a large freezer bag which landed beside my legs, instead of scattering into all corners of the school. I tried my hardest to ignore the mocking laughter echoing from all ends of the hallways as the first bell screeched, shocking me into a screaming jump, in which I dropped my thermos to the floor and with it, the rest of my coffee. I pulled my aching body into an undignified crawl, and managed to scrape together all three of my sketchbooks, and shoved them in my bag before running down the nearest hall in a desperate attempt to locate a bathroom. The seething hatred I held for myself, and the fear and fury I felt towards everybody else swirled in my stomach until my head was spinning and I was sure I was going to be sick. Noticing a plain white door in the mass of black and gray paint, I charged inside and proceeded to empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet in the last stall down. As hard as I tried, I just couldn't hold my tears back anymore. I slammed my head into the metal of the stall and bit my lip to muffle the sobs. I worked my fingers through my long, untamable hair and yanked, ripping it out of my head in painful clumps. I deserve to hurt. I'm a sickening, obnoxious abomination who only gets in the way of more important people doing more important things. God I am disgusting beyond belief. I worked my thick hoodie sleeves up to my elbows, admiring the deep purple scars covering my arms. I dug my sharp fingernails into my forearm, waiting for the sound of tiny blood drops hitting the dirty tiles. I should just do something right for once, I should just die. Jen was right. The torment needs to end. I need to stop tormenting these people, what right did I have, to come into their town, their school, and color the place with my deformity? None. The nails dug deeper. There was blood on the floor now, my blood. My sick, disgusting, schizophrenic blood. I had a lot of nerve, to stain the floors I wasn't even fit to walk on. The ringing of my own name from the intercom startled me out of my suicidal haze just enough to wrap my bleeding arm in the gauze sitting the front pocket of my backpack amongst hand sanitizer, antiseptic and millions of bandaids in various sizes, (You never know when you might get stabbed) and pulled myself together enough to throw my hood over my head and walk out the door.

With all of the gawking stares I received from the students in my new government class, I might as well have had my skin painted blue. One pair of deep brown eyes stuck out more than the rest; those belonging to a shockingly beautiful ginger boy, a look of sheer pitying astonishment gracing his pale, almost feminine features. I decided to sit down in an empty seat just behind him, noticing the way he quietly passed notes to the noirette beside him. I was immediately painfully jealous of the soft glances that were sent between them, and laid my head down on my desk to clear my head and try to quell the whispers in the back of my brain. I had come to class late, and was just beginning to drift off when I heard the bell ring yet again, startling me out of my daydreams. I screamed and twitched, snapping my neck once again. The room was silent. Their eyes were on me for what felt like the thousandth time today.

"Freak…"

I pulled my bag over my shoulder and flew out of the room as fast as my dizzy head and weary legs would let me. Deciding to avoid as much conflict as possible, I checked the schedule I had received in the mail and discovered that my next class was a study hall, in room 207. The second floor…meaning I would be forced to brave the crowded stairways. I quickly ruled out the idea of covering my head with my arms and barreling my way through with a war call a Spartan would envy, and in a spur-of-the-moment decision, I shut my eyes and dashed through into the mess of people, taking a few of them down with me. I was too embarrassed to turn around and help anybody back up again, and red-faced, continued running like mad until I reached my next class. God I hope I can go home soon…

Dear journal;

I didn't finish any of my works last night, too scared. So scared. The other kids at the school I'm currently attending are so cruel. They go out of their way to pick on me. Why can't they just ignore me. I don't want friends… but I don't want enemies either! They all look like they just want to hurt me. I must be some sort of a flaw in their system! I've got it! They're all robots working for the government and I'm going to get them noticed by the community because I don't fit in! IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW! THEY MUST WANT TO TURN ME INTO A ROBOT TOO!

The sound of an engine roared as it turned the corner onto my street, so I quickly closed my journal and shoved it into the backpack sitting on the ground beside me before anyone could notice that I had caught onto their plan. I stood up and grabbed my things, reaching the end of my driveway the second the doors of the bus flung open and smacked me hard in the face. The cackling laughter from inside the doors was quickly become much too familiar. I tried to ignore the offensive noise and the pain in my nose, but I already felt dizzy as I flew up the stairs. I was expecting to be forced into sitting beside another mocking, grumpy kid like I did yesterday, but noticed to my pleasant surprise that a single seat near the back of the bus was completely empty. I rushed towards it without noticing the thick leg blocking my path. I tripped over the foot of the same kid that had been taunting me mercilessly yesterday, and was sent sprawling to the floor with a loud shriek. I resisted the urge to cry, scream, or turn around and punch him in the face, and threw my backpack into the empty seat, scrambling my way in after it. I had to ignore them, avoid conflict, just block it all out. Music would help. Music always helped. I pulled my headphones over my ears and blasted the angriest songs I could find on my ipod.

Today was the second day in a row that I, 1. Walked into the cafeteria, 2. Saw all the people. 3. Panicked. my mouth to hold back a squeak. 5. Turned and fled to the bathroom. It was degrading, at best, but nobody came in to bother me and I could sit on the floor in the handicap stall and sketch out pictures of fish. The 20 minutes I was supposed to be on the other end of the school passed relatively quickly, and I decided I would start off to my next class before the bell rang and the rest of the kids came in. I checked my schedule as I left the bathroom, and noticed that I had art class next. On the first floor! A tiny seed of hope in my garden of torment. I felt that I could listen to brighter music now. I decided that 'Pon Pon Pon' would be a good choice. I had previously discovered that good things always happened when cheerful Japanese music was playing. It was a rule. I found the room the schedule informed me I was supposed to be in, and peered inside to happily discover that it was completely empty, just as I had hoped. I set my things down at the table furthest from the door and began unpacking my sketchbook, humming softly and shaking my hips oh so slightly to the music. Before I could stop myself, I was dancing along to the chorus, ipod in one hand, fistful of colored pencils pencils in the other. My voice rang through the empty classroom, broken by the occasional giggle, as I swayed my hips dramatically, preforming a few ill-placed pelvic thrusts into the open air. I was twirling and jumping about the room, flailing my arms in a way I was positive was completely unattractive, and in general, making quite a show out of myself. By the time the song was over I had fallen into my seat laughing my shrill, obnoxious laugh and wiping tiny tears from my eyes. It was only then that I noticed a tall, lanky figure leaning against the door frame. One of his dark eyebrows was raised, his mouth slightly open. I immediately recognized the kid from the bus yesterday. _Holy shit he saw that whole thing holy fuck he's gonna call me a fag and beat me up holy Jesus fucking Christ this is the end... _I took a deep breath and squeezed my eyes shut for the last time, preparing myself for a swift punch the face, but was greeting instead by a muffled thump and the squeak of a chair. I cautiously opened one eye, and saw the boy sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the room, bent over a sketchbook and acting as if he didn't just walk in on some sort of one-man circus. I was shocked. He wasn't going to pummel me into oblivion? But I just openly out-gayed myself in public! I quickly decided that he must have been some sort of a flaw in the robotic system as well, and was about to open my journal to record my discovery when the rest of the class filed in, talking animatedly and casting strange looks in my direction. They frightened me into forgetting about the strange raven haired boy and curling in on myself in my seat, hugging my knees to my chest. The last person to enter was short, thin woman with long, dark hair, who couldn't have been a day over 35. Her long skirt brushed the floor as she entered, reminding me of my mother. She clasped her hands together and announced that we would be doing surreal self-portraits this trimester, and went on to explain that the pictures should look like us, but with an abstract appeal. This sounded interesting, and I immediately decided that I was going to try to actually put myself into this, as opposed to simply coloring my hair green and my face purple. She showed a few examples from past years, sketches and paintings of children with colorful patterns in their eyes, or horns extending from their heads. As much as I wanted to, I found it hard to focus on the teacher, and keep my anxious mind from going back to the black-haired boy across the classroom. He was probably waiting until after class to beat me to a pulp. Why the hell had I decided to go and be happy in public? I totally deserved whatever was coming to me. The teacher was passing out papers now, along with what I gathered to be small mirrors which we would be using to examine our own faces, something that I really did not need to do any more of at all. I stood it up against my bag anyway, and began on my own sketch. I ran my pencil over my paper with a certain passion left only to my art and my coffee, and slowly a figure began to appear. My work generally had a slight macabre touch, but I usually bothered to censor myself for art class. Today was an exception. By the time the bell rang, signaling the end of the period and scaring me shitless, my paper held a black-and-white sketch of a very angular, bony figure with a hand against the side of its face, holding a crooked mask in place. The mask was of my own face. The face belonging to the thing beneath it was all wide, deep shadowed eyes and psychotic grin. I scribbled in my own jagged-ended, slightly crooked teeth, as well as my own long, thin nose and hollow cheekbones on the eerie looking figure in front of me. Painting was not my specialty, but I was going to make this into a masterpiece, mark my fucking words. I put the rough-draft between the over-crowded covers of my sketchbook and hurried out the door. As I left, I caught myself wondering what that boy with the expressionless face had been drawing.

After art had come study hall, in which I spent my time transferring my little sketch for my last class, onto a larger piece of paper. My drawings were always a little too sketchy, and it was hard for me to neaten up all of the extra little lines. I tried anyway, and was genuinely surprised when I was happy with the final product. Class ended quickly, and the final bell rang. I was just a tiny bit proud of myself when I managed to hold back my scream, and dulled my reaction to a slight jump. Overall, I was in an okay mood when I walked out to the locker I had been assigned, and pulled out my geometry textbook. I wasn't planning on using it, but I might as well have it on me this weekend. I was daydreaming about what I was going to eat when I got home, when I felt a heavy tap on my shoulder and flinched, turning around to face whoever had disturbed me. I thought I heard my name when I felt a huge fist slam into my face, knocking my head against the lockers and bringing me to the floor. I yelped in pain, blood trickling from my nose almost immediately. The fat kid from the bus towered over me, the same little blond boy behind him, rubbing his hands together like an evil minion. Before I had time to stand up again, the bigger kid grabbed at the long hair at the back of my head, and smashed my face into the floor. The whispers behind my head were calling me, mocking me and laughing at me. Those stupid little voices filled me with so much fury. I swung my leg out in an attempt to simply trip my assaulter and give myself some time to run away, but instead ended up kicking him in the shin hard enough to send him sprawling to the floor with his ankle crunching loudly underneath him. He screamed. He was calling me a twitchy little bastard. I was terrified, but I couldn't say I didn't feel guilty for what I had just done. I just made things a lot worse for myself. At this point, the little blond had fled, and the bigger brunette was crawling towards me, and soon his hands were closed tight around my throat. He brought himself to his knees and smashed my head into the locker doors once again, following with a hard blow to my gut. I was getting dizzy. There was blood leaking from my mouth and silent tears were streaming from my eyes. The boy was screaming at me, calling me a freak, that I deserved this, that I shouldn't be getting in his way. I wasn't aware that I was in anybody's way, but I still regretted whatever I had done. I tried to apologize, but he was still choking me and I couldn't find enough air in my lungs to get the words out. I was no longer angry. I was going to die. I would finally be at peace. The tears flowed, my face bloody and expressionless as my vision began to fade and I found myself slipping into slow, pitying unconsciousness.

"CARTMAN YOU MOTHERFUCKER!"

A frighteningly low, nasally voice roared through the nearly empty hallway as the weight on my throat and chest was relieved, and a loud snapping noise assaulted my ears. I heard screaming and wailing from a few feet away, and felt myself being lifted bridal-style. I could only manage to open my eyes enough to see that I was being carried out the door, away from the school before the pain became too much for me to handle and I finally fell into the darkness surrounding me.


	3. Don't rain on my parade

I woke up to a sharp pain in my eye and an ache in my chest. The clean, blue sheets and white walls were unfamiliar. I must have died. I must be in some sort of purgatory. I sat up, ignoring the pain in my chest and head; and ran my hands down my cheeks, astonished at the lack of crusted blood. It was then that the door opened, and that same black haired boy walked right up to my bed with some blue thing in his hand, sitting on the end and gently pushing my shoulders back down until I was lying flat on my back with an icepack against my forehead.

"Mornin'."

Even up close, there was no expression in his icy gaze, nor in his voice.

"Wha…Where did…Where am I?" The boy stood up and stretched his arms before walking across the bedroom and opening the blinds covering narrow window a few feet from the bed, revealing the chipping blue paint of my house only a couple yards away.

"Is th-this your house?" The boy nodded. "Why d-didn't y-y-you just t-take me home?"

"I did. No one there. Not letting you out of my sight."

"Who are y-you."

"Craig Tucker, at your service." The boy now known as Craig held out his hand in what must have been a sarcastic gesture, but I took it anyway, just in case. He shook my hand once before dropping it to the bed. "What the fucking hell did you do to get Cartman on your ass?" I raised an eyebrow quizzically. "The fat kid."

"O-oh. I…I don't even kn-know…I guess I j-just have an o-offensive face." Craig snorted, pulling up his legs and crossing them, facing me now.

"I left your mom a note informing her that you're crashing here this weekend. I don't care if you're okay with that or not, because you're staying here anyway."

"Whu-What the f-fuck man? I d-don't even, _know_ y-you! And n-now, I'm being k-k-kiddnapped‽

"Pretty much."

"W-why are you d-doing this to m-me‽"

Craig rolled his eyes, otherwise ignoring me as he pulled an iPod out of his sweatshirt pocket and popped the ear buds into his ears. I could instantly hear the stress-inducing noises of heavy metal screams from my seat on the other side of the bed, and began flailing my hands in front of his stupid, emotionless face. He ignored me, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes. I tried screaming at him, I tried threatening to break his things. I tried smacking his face. He didn't flinch. I was in just a little too much pain to get out and walk back to my house, so I did the most completely irrational thing I could think of.

"What the fuck dude‽"

"You w-weren't answering m-me."

"That doesn't give you the right to go stick your fucking finger up someone's nose." Craig ripped his headphones out of his ears glared at me.

"Well a-at least, you're sh-showing some emotion n-n-now." I sneered.

"Well Jesus motherfucking Christ what do you even want?"

"I w-want to know w-why you w-won't l-l-let me…go home." In all honesty, I didn't want to go home. At all. If Jen saw my in this condition, Best case scenario was she would shit a brick and fall unconscious. But arguing with this creep would at least make him think that I had a backbone.

"Because."

"B-because, _why,_ f-fuckass."

"I need to make sure you're okay."

This surprised me. It was true that I barely knew this kid, but Craig had struck me as a person that didn't give two shits about anyone's wellbeing. I need to learn to be less judgmental. Maybe he was a kind, sensitive person, despite his outward appearance and uncaring attitude.

"Why the fuck are you so goddamn skinny. Do you just, not fucking eat?" Or maybe he was just a dick. I eventually pretended to give in, even though Craig's reasoning was beyond the realm of 'arguments that make sense and are relative to the topic being discussed', and allowed him to bathe himself in his false success.

We ended up spending the night sprawled out on a worn out old couch in the basement, playing video games and screaming insults at each other with our faces stuffed with cheesy poofs. I learned quickly that Craig wasn't one to let me keep my personal space on the couch, and at the end of the night we ended up with his feet somehow in my lap. I pretended not to notice until the sound of muffled snores could be heard from the expanse of couch-space beside me. I learned as well, that Craig was a face-sleeper. One long arm hung over the edge of the couch, while the other was somehow twisted over his head, with his left hand resting on his right shoulder. I took the opportunity to slide my tiny body from under his sprawling legs, and situate myself on the floor. I pulled out my cellphone. It was 3:08 am, the perfect time to sneak upstairs and attempt to locate the Tucker's coffee pot. I crept up the stairs and into the kitchen, lurking in the shadows and peering cautiously around corners. It took longer than I would have liked to find the 'provider of rainbows and miracles', tucked away in the back of one of the tall, wooden cabinets that coated the walls of his kitchen, but I fixed myself a pot in a timely fashion and decided that, maybe, hanging around this kid for a day or two wouldn't be so bad.

The next two days passed quickly, between trying and failing to ignore Craig's loud snores; and interrogations from his little sister, Ruby. ("What the fuck are you doing hanging out with this douche?" I was never sure exactly which one of us she was referring to. ) By Sunday morning, my bruises had faded enough for me to return home without fear of Jen going into cardiac arrest. I said goodbye to Craig, (who silently flipped me the bird in response) and pulled my bag over my shoulder and returned home.

The first thing I noticed when I opened the creaky old door to enter my creaky old house, was a large, shiny fish tank sitting on the other side of the living room. It was filled to the brim with rainbow pebbles and plastic ferns, bubbling water and of course, colorful fish in various shapes and sizes. Neon tetras floated comfortably with small cichlids, bright orange mollies and even a few kissing fish.

"MOOOOOM. WH-WHAT THE _FUCK _DID YOU D-DO‽" No answer. It was then that I remembered the car was missing from our driveway. As I walked inside, I noticed a small sticky note coming into view from the side of the new aquarium.

'Aren't they cute‽ I know how much you love fish. Please don't be mad at me!'

This was way beyond ridiculous. I was surprised that we could even afford to eat on a regular basis, and now we had about 15 more tiny mouths to feed. I was going to have to find a job, or else be sold into slavery. I winced and tugged on my hair. I didn't want to be a slave! What if they made me preform _SEXUAL FAVORS. _I wouldn't be able to handle the pressure! The fish were to blame. I bent over to send the scaly little demons a look of sheer hatred, when a small guppy began to swim towards my unsuspecting face. It lightly bumped into the wall of the tank where my long nose was squished against the glass. On closer inspection, the tiny fish_ was_ just a little bit cute…It seemed to almost waddle back and forth as it swam, softly brushing against its larger tank mates. I noticed how the fish all seemed to get along; they all tolerated each other and lived together, despite their obvious differences. My previously icy heart began to melt as I watched the adorable little creatures float about in harmony. I just had such a soft spot for fish. They never made loud noises to scare me, or ran about my feet to trip me and tackle me when I was helpless on the floor, and they were so pretty to look at. Fish were my favorites. Curse my mother's intuition. She knew that I could never be mad at her if she had brought such lovely things into our home, no matter how much of our precious money she had spent on them. I sighed in defeat, and turned around to ascend the rickety old staircase to the bathroom. I threw my backpack and headphones against the door, and began peeling off my clothes as I turned on the shower. I had been too scared to use the shower at Craig's house, and had resorted to scrubbing my hair out in the kitchen sink when everyone else was asleep. Once the water was warm, I stepped inside and promptly seated myself on the floor, pulling my knees to my chin. I attempted to clear my head of the frightening things that often plagued me with worry, as the hot water seared my bare skin, flushing a soft pink in discomfort. I located the shampoo, and squeezed the bottle until my hand was overflowing and leaking onto the floor. No such thing as too much. I ran my fingers through my hair and stuck my head under the stream of burning water until I was sure that the soap was all gone, and I could open my eyes without hurting myself. I proceeded to flop on the floor of the shower on my side, curling into myself so as not to view my own body. I was disgusting: pale white, and boney like a skeleton. My eyes were too big, my nose was too long, my teeth were too tiny. I look like a zombie; a tiny, malnutritioned zombie. I was shivering hard when I finally turned off the water and stepped into the steamy bathroom, redressing and pulling my things across the hall into my bedroom.

The first thing I noticed was the post-it on my door, which was slightly ajar. Anxiety rose from my stomach to my chest. _Oh hell no. _I didn't even bother reading it before I knocked the door completely open, and took in the sight in front of me.

I have no idea where Jen had managed to find a doughnut-shaped fish tank, or what she had spent on it, but there it was. It sat in what had been the only empty corner of my room. It was about four feet tall, with a small archway at the bottom just large enough to crawl through. I could scamper inside and actually _sit in the middle_ of the hollow tank, just like the kiddie displays at the aquarium we used to visit in Denver when I was little. I was in such a potent state of shock; I had almost forgotten the note.

'Sorry!'

Without a mother to shout at, I had nothing to do but grit my teeth and crawl inside the loop of a fish tank. I was immediately struck with the realization that it was filled with tiny, green-spotted puffer fish: my favorites. I'd never been able to keep them before, as they were salt water fish. This was a salt water tank. I could fill it with all the adorable tropical fish my heart could stand. I was emotionally torn between the kindness of the gesture and my explosive love for fish; anger at my mother's impulsive actions; and fear of where this would leave us financially. I decided that it would be best try and push my emotions away, just for now, and enjoy the serenity of the bloated little puffer fish. I remembered what my childhood therapist had instructed me to do; find my center. I quickly decided that this would be my center, my happy place. Right here in this fish tank. I could live among the puffer fish. I could join their puffer fish tribe; and celebrate their puffer fish holidays; and dance their puffer fish dances. The further I descended into my salty fantasy, the calmer I felt. I found I could lean into the glass behind me without toppling the structure, and I did just so. I blew up my cheeks and made faces at the puffers, one of which inflated in return. The fishes understand me. They have accepted me into their culture as one of them. I breathed a sigh of relief and smiled into the glass, noticing my own reflection. I crossed my eyes and stuck out my tongue, laughing at my distorted expression. Before long, the sun was low in the sky, casting an orange and gold glow about my bedroom. I barely noticed the slam of a door and the scuffle of sneakers below me, but they snapped me out of my state of serenity just the same. Jen was home. Jen spent millions of dollars on fish. Jen is going to get her ass chewed by her very grateful and very angry son. I reluctantly crawled out of my happy place and stomped down the stairs. I thought the surprises were over. I let my guard down. I was expecting her to return home empty handed. I was wrong. She must have sensed my anger from my extra-loud footsteps, because when she turned around to face me, her expression was akin to that of a toddler caught with their hand in the cookie jar. But instead of cookies, her hands held small plastic bags. Small plastic bags filled with water…and clownfish. I crossed my arms and raised an eyebrow. I could smell her fear.

"J-just what the f-fucking hell do you think you're d-doing with those." Jen opened her mouth to speak, but closed it and shoved the tiny bags into my hands. If she had thrust anything other than fish in my direction, I would have promptly dropped it to the floor. Instead, I tried to retain as much angry composure as possible while cradling the four bags in my arms as if they were an infant.

"Are you g-going to-_nghh_-explain yourself?" Jen fled to the kitchen and pulled out yet another post-it, this one with noticeably different handwriting.

'Your kid is next door for the weekend. Some fatass beat his face in. He's unconscious right now but he'll be fine. Go buy him a puppy or something.'

-C

"I know you don't like puppies so I went out and got the tank! Then this guy at work told me that his son works at the Denver aquarium…and could get me a ring tank for $20! I don't know how, I don't want to know. But I did it anyway. You need friends. They will be fish friends if nothing else. I'm sorry…I let this happen. Enjoy your clownfish." She brought her stubby fingernails to her teeth and began nibbling, flicking her eyes in my direction every few second as I processed this information.

"So let me g-get this straight…" I began slowly. "If I get beat up at school, you –_nghh_- are totally fine with l-leaving me alone at a st-stranger's house, b-but you find it necessary to spend…all of our h-hard earned money, on fish." Jen nodded vigorously and pulled a crumpled piece of paper, and a check from her pocket.

"I got a promotion! _Andaraise_!" My anger deflated as quickly as it had come. According to the certificate, Jen was now the manager of the North Park Harbucks. I don't know how she managed to do it, but she had been working there since the divorce, and despite her mental illness, was good with corporations and customers. Most people found her innocent and adorable, as well as intelligent, when she worked around her paranoia. She beamed as I stared at the paper in astonishment, and proceeded to inform me that the tanks were a little expensive, but they won't break us right now. I gently set my babies on the table and went and threw my arms around her waist, picking her up and spinning her in the air while she screamed and demanded to be released. I was laughing hysterically when I finally dropped her on the floor. Without giving Jen any time to recover, I retrieved my bags o' fish and ran up the stairs, taking two at a time. I skidded into my bedroom on my socks and dumped the clownfish in the tank with my puffers. I dropped the empty bags on floor and made my way back into the tank. Now we were a colony. No longer were we 'Puffers and Tweek', we were a whole family. I smiled at my friends. I imagined they were smiling at me too. I decided that I would spend the night in this tank, burning incense and drawing pictures. My night fell into place in my mind as I hurried downstairs to fix myself a pot of coffee. I brought two mugs upstairs and set them on a long, thin shelf that had been built on the side of my wall furthest from the door. My room was heavy with smoke by the time I had finished my first cup, and was working on stuffing my tank-hole with a blankets and sketch pads. I turned off my light, and realized for the first time, that my tank had a light built in. I became giddy at the sight and decided that I needed to join my fishy colony right away. This would be my secret cave. No one else would ever be allowed inside. Even if I had somebody that I _could_ let inside, I wouldn't. Everybody else was evil and mean. They only want to hurt me and my fish. My mind flickered to thoughts of Craig, and I briefly wondered why he would have offered to help me at all. He must be working for them! He must be trying to get inside my head, make me trust him so that they could hurt me more! Maybe they want my fish! I took a sip of my coffee to calm my frantic mind. Soon my chest was fluttering with anxiety. I began to frantically flip through pages of my sketchbook until I found I blank canvas to begin sketching on. My pencil ran over the page with shaky, unstable movements. Nothing was coming out right. I needed to calm down. But drawing _is_ how I calm down. But I can't calm down in order to calm down! I brought my coffee cup to my lips only to find it empty, and my stomach convulsed with a pang of sickening fear in response. In twitching desperation, I smooshed my face into the glass surrounding me; startling some of the peaceful fish inside. I immediately felt guilty for disturbing them and decided that I needed to escape the watery prison and breathe. Once outside, I flopped on my back and inhaled the smoky air. What if I choke and die‽ I rolled over and crawled into the hallway as fast as I could, barely managing to stand up fast enough to make it down my stairs in one piece. The air down here was all smoke. All of it. I was going to suffocate and die! I had no control over my body as I barreled through the front door and out into the frost-coated grass. My knees hit the frozen ground, face subsequent to that. My eyes welled up and spilled over, freezing tiny blades of frosty grass to my cheeks. I was well aware at this point that I was face first in the dirt with my ass in the air, but I couldn't be bothered to give a shit, as my lungs were so tight that I couldn't breathe and my head was spinning at such a rapid pace I was becoming dizzy. Everything was terrifying me. The mere concept of oven mitts could have startled me into a heart attack at the moment. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't speak. I wanted to run, but I couldn't move. I wanted to vomit but my mind couldn't find my own body. I was disoriented and disconnected, and before I knew it, completely unconscious.

Vertigo hits me often, and sometimes, I can even panic so much that I shock myself into a dizzy spell. I never black out for more than about a minute, but a minute was apparently long enough for Jen to run outside, grab me by the ankles and begin dragging me back into the house. I woke up somewhere between my chin smacking the first stair on the porch, and my belt getting caught on the third. At this point I was groggy enough to have calmed down from my panic attack, but awake enough to scream and kick my mother in the hip. when I noticed that I was being dragged, my mind went first to' failed suicide', then to 'murder attempt', with 'zombie invasion' following soon after. This was how, in a matter of approximately one and a half seconds, I came to the conclusion that I was about to be eaten by a cannibalistic zombie. If I hadn't heard specifically my mother's scream after assaulting my 'attacker', I would have jumped to my feet and fled for my life. But I did hear my mother's voice, so I merely rolled over, body still tingling, and attempted to utter an apology. Jen had already given up and reentered the house, leaving me to fend for myself. I stood up on shaky legs and followed her inside, a cloud of shame and guilt leaking from my pores. Why did I have to always find a way to somehow ruin my own good time, Not to mention other people's? God, I even annoyed myself. All that dramatic bullshit, and it happens for no reason. Jen entered wordlessly, a steaming pot of coffee in her hands. I took it reluctantly, hands shaking like a leaf. I flopped onto the couch and wallowed in my own misery. I had let most of the smoke out with me when I exploded from the house like a firecracker, and the atmosphere was fragrant without being smoggy. I couldn't enjoy it. I was too busy being scared over my own fear. The idea of an anxiety attack was almost enough to plunge me into another anxiety attack. I could feel myself drowning in my own worry and hated myself immensely for it. Even the tank in the corner of my eye wasn't quite enough to cheer me up.

There is a point in life when you can be awake for so long that time no longer matters to you. You've simply existed for too much time, been conscious for years on end. It is exasperating. I was on my fifth cup of coffee when early morning sunlight began to flow from the creases in the curtains, and with a tortured sigh and nauseas stomach, I remembered that I had to go to school this morning. I hadn't noticed the silent tears falling from my eyes until I felt the bitter wind against my face. I pulled on my headphones and sat in solitude at the end of my driveway. I didn't have enough energy to pull out my journal and log my feelings, it was all just more of the same; more hollowing depression, more sickening paranoia, more exasperating insomnia. The longer I stayed awake, the louder the voices got. They whispered to each other in the back of my head, jeering at me, laughing at me, reminding me that I was sick. I didn't need to jot down and re-read these things. It was becoming masochistic. The bus screeched on its brakes, blowing my scrappy bangs out of my eyes and filling my lungs with exhaust fumes. I noticed a large mass of space missing from the seats in front of me, and pulled into an empty space in the middle. Cartman must have taken the day off in celebration of my defeat. The bus started up again, and immediately stopped in its tracks. I was hardly aware of the bus driver yelling, instructing some kid to get back in their seat, but I felt the added weight of something landing beside me: something with pale eyes and a middle finger in the air. Craig ignored me when I sent him a confused expression, and I immediately caught on that we were riding in silence. It wasn't until we reached the school that I remembered Craig's malevolent intentions of attempting to earn my undeserving trust, and I jumped over his legs and flew out the door in fear, aware of his narrow eyes glued to my back.


End file.
